Looking Back: The Sad Adventures of a Motor Car

From June 1905

The Sad Adventures of a Motor Car

By M. L. C.

THIS tale is dedicated to all such as dislike the automobile.

It does not matter where we started from. We were to return so soon. But we started in a motor car, and for four miles “all went well.” Then our driver—they called him a “Chaffer” in the French of the country-side, and indeed he was a humorous creature—discovered flaws in the machinery. He said much about Differentials and other things I had hoped to die without hearing. After unnecessary heat he made things right in some measure, and we reached the town of Galashiels. We had accomplished a journey of fifteen miles in four hours—a promising beginning.

At Galashiels the Chaffer and some confederates exposed the innards of the motor in a stable yard. They took seven hours to the task, and we sat by and watched and waited, and did not weary much—for who would weary in Galashiels? Then night fell.

We resolved to go forward by night to Glasgow. Our party was composed of the following people: Another lady and myself, my uncle, who owned the car, and the Chaffer. The speed allowed to a motor car by a benevolent government is twenty miles an hour. We did not move more slowly. For a time our sensations were excellent; and were it not that rabbits ran under our wheels and perished miserably, the memories of that night would almost make up for the calamities which were to come. Shall I describe Peebles and Lanark and Hamilton? It was utterly dark as we passed through those towns: their lively streets were deserted; their gaiety silenced for a while. Even Glasgow was obscure as we reached it in the early morning hours. It was dark also when we left at noon next day.

On the next day our real sorrows were to begin. But first there was a taste of Heaven. A few miles outside of Glasgow the pall of smoke and fog was lifted, and as we reached the charming shores of Loch Lomond the sun shone gloriously: the lake was a molten mirror; its islands were “like emeralds chased in gold”; and, above all, our motor was behaving beautifully, and sailing like a bird past every sluggish vehicle on the way. Tarbet was a lovely halting-place. And then we crossed Arrochar, on the shores of Loch Long, and sped merrily on our road to Oban, which we hoped to reach by way of Inverary—sped merrily for three or four miles. We saw a little inn by Loch Long side, and commiserated the dwellers there. Little did we anticipate the gratitude with which, in a few hours, we were to seek its hospitality.

Then the blow fell. We came to a hill. The motor stuck. We got out. The Chaffer, all his mirth gone, was now a Shover. All of us put our shoulders to the wheel. The motor moved, but it was backward. It moved more quickly, and it ran into a ditch. The Chaffer’s leg was crushed beneath it. Now was our party derelict—miles form help: all of us sorrowful, and one in pain. Hours passed before help came. Inglorious horses were found and yoked to our car, once so triumphal. By push and pull it emerged from the ditch. Its wheels were jammed. It could but move spasmodically, like a lame duck. The poor little company sought back to the inn we had despised.

Those who remember Aytoun’s story, How I became a Yeoman, will recall the horseman’s plight on the morning after his ride on Portobello sands, and with what emotions he heard his landlady breaking coal with his sword. With some such sentiment did I look out from my lattice on the morning after our disaster, and see our motor car on a railway truck on its way to London to be repaired. We also went home by train, and were received with the derision of our family.

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